So, Which Type Are You?

UPDATE ON WEDNESDAY MORNING: One of my favorites ever. Y’all kill me. You just kill me. I am watching these closely and you may look forward to a post hopefully later this evening or tomorrow morning on my findings and reflections concerning movers versus immovers here in the imaginary city of Siestaville. You will not want to miss this life changing message. Until then, I’d simply like to say that some of you don’t get enough sleep. I just brought in over 200 comments that were written during the night. As for me, I am currently spending my night hours putting on extra jammies because I’m cold then taking them off one piece at a time because I’m hot. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to say that I’m annoyed. Last thing: don’t get worried if you don’t see your comments posted for a couple of hours. I’ve got to go to the back doctor today and will be out for pockets of time throughout the day. I promise to get all of them in by afternoon. You’re my bffs right this minute. Even you movers.

ORIGINAL POST:

OK, Y’all. After 31 years of marriage, Keith and I just experienced a FIRST. Remember that beautiful Christmas tree he had his nephews deliver to me while he was out of town after my surgery? Well, ever since we got home from Passion, I’ve been hinting about how that tree sure does look dry and those needles sure are piling up on the carpet. I adore the Christmas season and love all the decorations but by 12:01 AM on New Year’s Day, while the neighbors do their bottle rockets, I’m obsessing about getting my house back in order. Normally, Keith is MIA this time a year and I, like the Hoss I pretend to be (if that’s a bad word, I don’t know it so forgive me), haul that tree right out of my house single handedly and drag it to the curb. But alas, I presently have two strikes against independence: 1) a persistent large herniated disk and 2) only four weeks out of surgery and can’t lift more than ten pounds for four more interminable weeks.

You can probably imagine that my hints are about as subtle as my biker friend who likes to sit on the front row at church wearing intense black leather and about 65 pounds of chains. I love him because he loves Jesus. And I get a kick out of the novelty and wonder if God does, too. So, anyway, Keith got on his heavy gloves and grabbed that Christmas tree by its wilting throat, leaving that typical four-inch deep train of pine needles. He walked back in the house and I said in my meekest, most apologetic voice, “Honey, did you know I can’t sweep either? I’m not supposed to do that side to side motion.” He got the broom. I’m pretty sure he liked me better last night when he was watching that deer show all by himself and I was blogging.

Of course, true to form, none of this is my point. Nor is it our big first I wrote to tell you about. What happened is this: he had to move the furniture around to drag out the tree and when he put it all back, since I could offer him no assistance, he ended up putting a table in the wrong place. It was one of those tables that goes behind your couch. I think there’s a name for it but goodness knows I don’t know what it is. Instead of putting it where it had been since our remodel, Keith shoved it against the wall. I stood in the den staring at it for the longest time and finally said, “Hey, Sweetie, did you realize you put the table in the wrong place?”

Him, squinting at it like it was a hog under a distant deer feeder: “I knew something was off but I didn’t know what.”

Me: “You’re not going to believe this but I think I like it.”

Him, staring at me in disbelief, wondering if it could be the low estrogen. Can he really trust anything I have to say right now? Finally, he breaks the silence: “Uh, I think I do, too.”

And, so, we left it there.

First time in 31 years.

I have never one time – I said never one time – rearranged the furniture. When we moved into this house 25 years ago, the movers put the furniture down and I have not scooted around one single chair since. When Melissa was graduating from high school and we were having guests over to our house to celebrate, I asked Keith if I could get some new den furniture…then proceeded to put the new couch exactly where the old couch had been. The coffee table exactly where the old coffee table had been. And so forth.

Three and a half years ago we remodeled. Our friend, Vicky, was in charge of the entire project because I don’t care what color paint goes where nor would I know a silk pillow from polyester. She positioned the furniture and I’ve haven’t moved a stick of it since. I mean, why mess it up?

Until today.

We actually rearranged a piece of furniture. I’m so excited. It’s only one but I feel a sudden recklessness. I may march right into the master bathroom and change out the decorative hand towels with the gold tassels. I am feeling dangerous. Edgy.

So, what about you, Siestas? Are you the type that loves to rearrange furniture and spontaneously redecorate a corner of your home? Or are you like me and once it’s there, it’s not going anywhere? And either way, what do you think that says about us??

I can’t wait. You’re so much fun.

UPDATE HALF HOUR IN: OK, this is a blast. I’m going to do an approximate tally in a day or two and tell you how we shake out on this life-altering issue here in Siestaville.

NEW UPDATE AN HOUR IN: Travis just sent me a two-word text: “Sofa Table.” TRAVIS told me that. My worship leader had to tell me it was a sofa table. I’ve had it. I’m going to get furniture therapy.

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What’s a Siesta?

Isn't "siesta" the Spanish word for nap? Yes! Then why are our LPM blog readers called siestas? One time Beth typed out the word "sistas," referring to our blog readers, and her spell checker wanted her to change it to "siestas." The name stuck! You can read about it here. If you read this blog, consider yourself a siesta! It's just another word for sister.